The “delegate” put his silk handkerchief to his nostrils and looked suspiciously at me. It requires some ten minutes to make the distance between King’s Cross and Paddington, so he was unable to hold his breath all the way. Every time he breathed I felt as if I had murdered a man. My Tennessee friend and the Kentucky parson were not yet disposed to be critical, so they chatted merrily, breathed regularly, and acted as though these sulphur laden fumes were their “native air.”
But after we had quitted Paddington station, and the train had taken its last few plunges under ground; when we had actually shaken off the dust and grime and roar of London, the beauty of the incomparable English landscape began to make us glad. Patchwork hillsides, where tiny fields are partitioned off by greenest hedges, lovely valleys, where brimming streams shimmer their length along, came, one by one, into view. The English streams have no visible banks. The turf, green as an emerald, grows clear to the water’s brink and dangles its luxuriant growth into the quiet brook, as a barefoot boy, playing truant, cools his feet in some wayside stream, while the master’s wrath grows warm. These rivers—for rivers I must call them, though a good athlete might almost leap from side to side—are always full and seem as though the accidental dropping in of a pebble would make them overflow.
As hill and valley, hedge and garden, country home and quiet hamlet, all of surpassing loveliness, swept past us, my entire party began to fall under the spell of this exquisite beauty, and I felt that there had arisen the unanimous, though unexpressed, conviction that now, at last, the self-appointed guide was earning his salary.
WINDSOR CASTLE FROM THE THAMES.
As Windsor is distant from London by about forty minutes ride, the tourist arrives at his destination fresh and “fit,” to use an expressive English phrase. When we issued forth from the station we encountered, as a matter of course, the ubiquitous hackman who, in all lands, stands ever ready to drive you to all the places you especially do not want to visit. The object of our pilgrimage was the Castle, distant a stone’s throw from the station, so there was no occasion to provoke an unnecessary and futile dispute with the “cabbie.” We next encountered an army of small boys distributing handbills, on which were set forth, in eloquent terms, the merits of the various “tea rooms” of the city, which unselfishly cater to the comfort of the stranger. We accepted this service as a matter of course, first, because it was gratuitous; second, because it was the easiest way to get rid of the boy, and third, because, though a sight-seer may pull through the day without the assistance of a hansom or a “growler,” I have never known one who was not ready to take a little refreshment, especially when he was traveling abroad. After we had become thoroughly tired out, with climbing the steps of the Round Tower and general sight-seeing, we found a cosy, clean and restful upper room, where the actual bill of fare was not badly out of harmony with the promises of the card.
The town of Windsor, itself, possesses nothing of special interest to the traveler. The Castle, situated in a commanding position on the Thames, dominates the town from every point of view, and is, with its environs, the sole reason for a visit.
The group of buildings enclosed by the walls is nearly a mile in circumference and has been the favorite home of most of the sovereigns of England since the days of William the Conqueror. Each one has continued the lavish expenditures of his predecessor to enrich and beautify it. It fascinates, therefore, not only by its great beauty, the romance suggested by wall and tower, but also, and especially, by the variety of its architecture. Here we can study the master-builder’s art, as gate, chapel, and tower step forth, in quick succession, to instruct us. The space, enclosed by the walls of the castle, is divided into two wards—the lower and the upper—by the great Round Tower, which occupies the brow of a hill, or mound, commanding the upper ward, which is level, and looking down upon the lower ward, which is situated on a gradual incline. The walls are pinched together at the Tower, but swell out around either ward, suggesting somewhat the figure eight.
We arrived at Windsor by the Great Western Railway, and after walking up a little hill, High Street, passing on the left the beautiful Jubilee statue of Queen Victoria, we found ourselves at the main entrance of the lower ward, Henry VIII’s gateway. Notice this splendid example of Tudor architecture, built about 1510. Either side of the gateway is flanked by a mighty tower, which you will notice has three sides to make more effective the defence. Over the gateway, in a row, may be seen the badges of Henry: the fleur-de-lis, suggesting the English claim to the French crown; the Tudor Rose; and the portcullis, used so frequently after the twelfth century to protect the gateway from sudden assault.
My readers will remember that Henry was rather indulgent to himself in the matter of marriages. He experienced, all told, six wives, of whom Providence removed two, divorce set aside two more, and the executioner’s axe cut short the career of the remaining pair.